


Keep On Damning the Devil

by APgeeksout



Category: Banshee (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s04e04 Innocent Might Be a Bit of a Stretch, F/M, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 01:43:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6635920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could push her off - even with the wound to his side and all the blood he's spilled out on her hands, in her backseat, on the stale sheets of the bed she's made for them both - if he really wanted to. If he were any better at making the right decisions for himself than she's ever been.</p><p>Expanding on one of the flashbacks in episode 4.04.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep On Damning the Devil

He could push her off - even with the wound to his side and all the blood he's spilled out on her hands, in her backseat, on the stale sheets of the bed she's made for them both - if he really wanted to. If he were any better at making the right decisions for himself than she's ever been. 

He doesn't knock her to the floor and he doesn't jerk away from the hand she presses to his jaw, tugging not-so-viciously at the dense grizzle of his beard. He doesn't stop her from throwing a knee over him or wrapping her fingers around him tight, dragging another hiss out of him, pained in a different way than the first. 

She doesn't bother to get out of her dress, lets the creamy material of her skirt pool around their hips as she works him by feel, lets herself imagine the rusty smear his grip would leave behind if he would hold on to her. 

It was different, the times they've fucked before, in the open, airy space of the loft at Sugar's, his fingers tugging at her little black dresses, pressing into the softness of her curves, leaving almost-deep-enough bruises against the ridges of her collarbones. It feels like so long ago now that she can barely remember what she wanted from him then: another dirty little secret? an escape route? 

He's already leaking against her palm, and she wonders if anyone's touched him this way since the deputy, if that's what's behind the way his eyes close and his mouth twists around his harsh, heavy breath. She takes the hand away from his cheek, and he looks up at her, eyes hot and hollow. There's no mirror here, but she imagines her own look the same as she hovers above him.

She pushes the lace of her panties to the side, too intent on finishing what she's started to take the time to slide them off or to care about stretching or tearing the filmy material. They'll hardly be the most delicate thing she's ruined. 

She presses a couple of fingers inside herself, pulls them back out slick, and strokes around him a final time before she guides his beading tip between her lips and sinks down until she's full. His thighs are already trembling against the inside of her own, and it only takes a minute or so of the slow rock of her hips over his before she feels him go rigid beneath her, head tipping back into the pillow, inarticulate sound wrenching out of his throat. As she feels the hot pulse of him spilling, hard and sudden, inside her, his fingers close around her wrist again. Not to stop her this time. The grip isn't sharp enough to grind her small bones together, not unbreakable or hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to keep her close - if she wants to stay - even after he's gone soft and slipped out. 

She rests back against him and rubs the fingers of her free hand over her clit, quick and savage, bringing herself off wet and sloppy against the hard muscle of his thigh. 

She doesn't need a savior, doesn't need his hands at her hips or on her breasts, doesn't need to feel that beard against the skin of her throat. All she takes from him now - all he's ever been able to offer - is a shred of proof she's not alone in the darkness. 

She rises, stepping out of her panties and back into her shoes, the mess dripping down the inside of her thigh as much evidence that they're both still here as the thumb that rests over her pulse before she breaks the connection with her last few steps into the night.


End file.
